


Ritual

by knotted_rose



Category: CSI: Miami
Genre: Gen, OCD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knotted_rose/pseuds/knotted_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan cleans his gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-show, before Ryan is part of the cast. When he's still dealing with his OCD.
> 
> Originally published 3 February 2005

Ryan sits at his kitchen table, fingers laced through each other, squeezing his hands together tightly. The shadows thrown by the light above him are harsh, unforgiving. The sound of cars passing on the nearby Interstate wafts in and out of the open window, the wind barely fluttering the white curtains.

He doesn't want to do this. Not tonight. It was a long shift, starting with a 10-16, domestic dispute, and ending in 998, officer involved shooting.

He'd only drawn his weapon, hadn't had to fire it. Mike, his partner, was doing fine. Just a long bullet-track scratch along his bicep. It didn't even required stitches.

Ryan tells himself he shouldn't have to do this. He should be able to just go to bed, go to sleep. He's going to be tired in the morning anyway, even without staying up to do this.

But he knows he'll never sleep without it -- the clawing need in his chest is already tearing him open, making it hard for him to breathe. His thoughts circle back and back again to how he has to make sure that it's okay, that they're both okay.

Ryan puts his forehead on the cool wood of the table, pushing down until there's a dull throbbing pain right between his eyes, willing himself to let it go.

He can't. The compulsion is too strong, too vivid, too there.

With a sigh he pushes himself up, goes to the front closet, pulls his kit down from the top shelf, and then goes back to the kitchen which has the best light.

First he cleans the table, setting the mood, setting the pace. Just starting relaxes him, the chemical odor of the cleaner more reassuring than any smell of baking food or half-remembered childhood scent. When the table is clean, he lays out a spotless white towel, delimiting his area, defining his workspace -- sanctifying his altar.

One by one he draws his instruments out of his kit, wipes them down with a brand-new micro-cloth towel that will leave no lint, lines them up to one side with surgical precision. He's fortunate tonight. He doesn't feel the need to completely clean them as well. The single swipe of the cloth is enough, and the way they lay, neatly ordered and ready, helps the clenching place in his chest unfurl a little.

Then he gets his sidearm.

For a long while Ryan sits with his gun in his hands. The black of the weapon contrasts starkly with the white towel, sucking at his gaze, holding it, holding him, still.

He _respects_ this weapon. Works hard at never thinking of it in terms of "love" or "hate." It's a symbol of authority, of power. Of a job he has no choice but to do. It isn't the badge or the uniform or even the "cop-talk" that he's learned to speak that sets him apart, makes him different from his neighbors, his family.

Just this.

He breaks the weapon down into its gross component parts -- slide, magazine, body. Using his tools he breaks it down further.

Then he begins to clean.

Cloth. Cloth brush. Soft bristle brush. Elbow grease.

He rubs the brush along the inside of the slide twenty times, counting silently on each down stroke. Then he takes another micro-cloth and rubs down the top, the bottom, the inside, insuring that no dust or lint remains behind.

The piece glows darkly when he finally puts it aside and a tiny piece of calm worms its way inside his chest. The slide is clean. He can move on to the next part.

He takes the bullets out of the magazine, wipes them down, one by one, then replaces them, shoving them against the spring with a cloth covered thumb, no dust, no grease from his fingers, no lint marring each perfect cylinder, nothing extraneous to stand in the way between each bullet and its target.

He cleans the butt, using special care to remove any dust that might be trapped in the waffle grip. He works over the trigger, the guard, the safety. Everything is cleaned and oiled and cleaned again, ensuring perfect working order.

It's almost an hour later before he reassembles his weapon, but he knows he can't stop there. However, he's breathing deeply now, his movements calm and automatic. It only takes thirty minutes or so before his secondary weapon is cleaned as well.

When he has finished with both weapons, Ryan sits for another long moment, staring at them, until the spell is broken and his postponed weariness slams into him. He stands, almost swaying with exhaustion. His eyes smart from the intense focus he's held, the muscles in his forearms and hands quake now and again with tiny tremors. His back aches from sitting so straight and clenched for this long time. His head pounds as if he'd spent the entire time pressing his forehead to the table.

But he isn't finished yet.

He cleans his instruments one more time, shaking out the cloth brush, rinsing the bristle one, then hand-drying it. He places the towel and the micro-cloths next to his laundry basket -- he'll hand wash them now, bleach them later.

The kit goes back together, back to its hiding place. He wipes down the table one more time.

And now, Ryan can rest. His guns are clean. His protection. His façade. He did it right this time, though there really have only been a couple of times when he did it _wrong,_ wrong enough that he'd had to clean his weapons more than once.

Slowly Ryan makes his way to his bed, where he falls into dreamless, protected sleep, his real reward for a job well done.

{end}


End file.
